“Another specimen of democracy.”

Beulah felt as if a lava tide surged madly in her veins, and, as the carriage rolled homeward, she covered her face with her hands.  Wounded pride, indignation, and contempt struggled violently in her heart.  For some moments there was silence; then her guardian drew her hands from her face, held them firmly in his, and, leaning forward, said gravely: 

“Beulah, malice and envy love lofty marks.  Learn, as I have done, to look down with scorn from the summit of indifference upon the feeble darts aimed from the pits beneath you.  My child, don’t suffer the senseless gossip of the shallow crowd to wound you.”

She endeavored to withdraw her hands, but his unyielding grasp prevented her.

“Beulah, you must conquer your morbid sensitiveness, if you would have your life other than a dreary burden.”

“Oh, sir! you are not invulnerable to these wounds; how, then, can I, an orphan girl, receive them with indifference?” She spoke passionately, and drooped her burning face till it touched his arm.

“Ah, you observed my agitation to-night.  But for a vow made to my dying mother, that villian’s blood had long since removed all grounds of emotion.  Six years ago he fled from me, and his unexpected reappearance to-night excited me more than I had fancied it was possible for anything to do.”  His voice was as low, calm, and musical as though he were reading aloud to her some poetic tale of injuries; and, in the same even, quiet tone, he added: 

“It is well.  All have a Nemesis.”

“Not on earth, sir.”

“Wait till you have lived as long as I, and you will think with me.  Beulah, be careful how you write to Eugene of Cornelia Graham; better not mention her name at all.  If she lives to come home again you will understand me.”

“Is not her health good?” asked Beulah in surprise.

“Far from it.  She has a disease of the heart which may end her existence any moment.  I doubt whether she ever returns to America.  Mind, I do not wish you to speak of this to anyone.  Good-night.  If you are up in time in the morning I wish you would be so good as to cut some of the choicest flowers in the greenhouse and arrange a handsome bouquet before breakfast.  I want to take it to one of my patients, an old friend of my mother’s.”

They were at home, and, only pausing at the door of Mrs. Watson’s room to tell the good woman the “music was charming,” Beulah hastened to her own apartment.  Throwing herself into a chair, she recalled the incidents of the evening, and her cheeks burned painfully as her position in the eyes of the world was forced upon her recollection.  Tears of mortification rolled over her hot face, and her heart throbbed almost to suffocation.  She sank upon her knees and tried to pray, but sobs choked her utterrance; and, leaning her head against the bed, she wept bitterly.